


Passacaglia

by Hermonthis



Category: Storm Hawks
Genre: Dark Comedy, Debauchery, Drabble Collection, Drama, Inspired by Fanart, Multi, everyone's sleeping with everyone else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermonthis/pseuds/Hermonthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyclonis, Aerrow and Piper. A dark drabble series. Corrosive beginnings precede an unknown end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Passacaglia

**Author's Note:**

> Story started in 2008, picked up again in 2013, then finished in 2015. Despite the lengthy pauses between chapters, I'm oddly satisfied with the ending. Inspired by a piece of Aerrow/Cyclonis fanart called "The Odd Couple" on deviantart.

### Part One, Chapter One

"You killed my best knight." The first words out of her mouth, the blank stare that suffocates the disbelief hidden inside her chest; the boy whom she cannot accept as a man holds his blades downward by his sides and provides no reply.

A standstill, a moment of dim light and creeping darkness as he remains two paces away from the stone archway and watches her slide off her metallic throne to greet him. Everyone has abandoned them. She is not sorry for her loss of the Dark Ace. In some ways, the girl who is now a young woman retains some of her teenage innocence. The tragedy is Cyclonis does not know it. He stands at the ready and starts to think either she has kept her head in the crystal clouds too long or -

"I knew this was coming."

He has watched her grow through the years, watches her from afar. He knows her this way. She cannot say the same, for she chose to stay anchored to her land instead. But now, right now, such indifference for a child who came to the throne at the impressionable age of fourteen, what a lack of compassion for one who swore one day to rule the Atmos.

He speaks for the first time since this fateful meeting in this black castle. A smirk that is all too familiar slides down his face and makes its home there. The girl almost shivers – almost. At least, she thinks she should.

He says,

"Oh?"

And the primeval bells of the citadel ring.


	2. Caustic

### Part One, Chapter Two

"You took her away from us," he says. What she expects to be acidic and bitter has already solidified into hardened rock. It isn't an accusation, but a statement that can't be changed, Cyclonis looks surprised for the next sentence from his mouth makes little sense to her at all.

"You took Piper from us, so I took the Dark Ace from you."

That wasn't fair. The empress purses her mouth as her formal reply. True, she had taken Piper and yes, she did change her, but at least the former is still alive. She, on the other hand, has no one. Has run out of pawns to use, and Cyclonis learns quickly to rely on no one but herself, even in failure. The loneliness may have overwhelmed a lesser girl, but now it is only an afterthought.

The Sky Knight speaks again, and this time she listens closely. The toughened edge in his voice from years of poverty, the pride that cushions his tongue as the Oracle's Chosen One – all things that might have belonged to her, that should have belonged to her, but didn't. Aerrow has seen the world while she remained stationary in the castle, and she supposes playing the role of villain is the reason he became this way. But Aerrow doesn't suppose, he already knows.

"I have just one question for you," he points at her chest with one of his energy blades, and the girl decides that in her last hour she will humour him.

"Shoot."

An eerie light twinkles in his green eyes as he chuckles at his enemy's resolve; a true royal to the end. He makes up his mind before he parts his lips; before she speaks he knows what he is going to do. And he tells her in a hushed whisper,

"Master Cyclonis, do you want to burn?"


	3. Carillon

### Part One, Chapter Three

The natural downward turn of her lips, the distinctive black mole on her cheek just below her left eye, the shades of midnight purple and black she wears. She looks at everything but him, and he looks at nothing but her.

Bells, everywhere. The mourn in throbbing, lamenting musical overtones, the final indication of her downfall. They ring in harmony, more often in discord, and the rumbling tower makes her heart quicken even faster. It heightens the reality that Cyclonia is falling apart, and so is her master.

And he holds her. Blades that no doubt still have the blood of her champion on them. They are strapped to his back and tucked away safely as Aerrow places his arms around her waist and starts to waltz her around the empty throne room. His feet are swift, strange accustomed to the movement in ways the empress of crystals doesn't know – more revelations and more realization that her conqueror can beat her at every level imaginable.

"I like your suit." He raises his eyebrows and indicates at the elaborate workings of fabric, leather, and buckles that consist of her altered wardrobe. In return, her eyes glance up and down at his chest and notes the dark red cloak that hangs off his shoulders.

She has no other words to say but, "Thank you."


	4. Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I.** _Adv. and adj. Musical term._  
>  In a slow and solemn manner. Used chiefly as a direction. Italian, from Latin _gravis,_ heavy.
> 
>  **II.** _Adj., grav·er, grav·est._  
>  Somber or dark in hue.

### Part One, Chapter Four

Because no one wants to die a virgin. Because she has one hour left to live and she might as well use it. Her arms are skinny and cold, and look as if they belong to someone who does not take the time to go outside and play under the sun. Gloved fingers rub against her skin to warm her, but he refuses to kiss her. It is too much of a request anyways. His warm breath upon her cheek is the closest moment where their lips could – and might have – touched.

And somewhere deep inside, he is still vulnerable. As they come closer to each other she starts to see past the glass he surrounds himself in, the inches of invisible barriers that are greatest around his chest, the slanted shield that protects his somber face.

As she lies down on the ground his hands are at her back to soften her fall. His fingers cradle the back of her skull to protect her head. As she closes her eyes and gasps loudly when he finally enters her, she hears the echoes of the young, optimistic boy trapped underneath the layer of desperate adulthood. There is time for Cyclonis to laugh quietly to herself with the epiphany that the boy she knows is still there, and despite his toned adult body, Aerrow is a messy lover.

He does not want to be like this; just like she does not want to see her homeland descend in honour, but the transformation is already done. Cyclonis wonders about alternate routes, different circumstances in the moments before and in-between this pseudo-love, but loses herself with his rhythmic grunts. Sex, she thinks, can be fascination, more so without the majority of their clothes on.

It could have been so much better if it didn't feel so technical.


	5. Liar

### Part One, Chapter Five

Because they are children grown up fast – because they are barely adults nurtured by the lessons of loss and pain – they lie. Because they are the things they did not hope to become – they believe in those lies.

"Come on," he says as he rises from his knees, and hesitates to help her up. But he does anyway. Again, the red cloak around his shoulders shifts and the movement reminds her of something it is not, of something hot and liquid, of something that is supposed to be in her veins. She frowns. Reality is back, and it is colder than before.

All intimacy forgotten, Cyclonis wipes her dirtied cheek with the back of her hand and refuses to follow the Sky Knight. She is stubborn and is prepared to remain in her echoing castle, to die along with it. She hasn't stepped outside for several hours, so the state of her nation is unknown to her. But to be seen escorted outside by Atmosia's Messiah is an assured way to secure her death sentence.

"Come on," he repeats, more urgently and perhaps with just a little more concern. Green eyes are oblivious to the wariness in hers. He knows they have to leave before others will come; this victory is his alone. And so to get her to move, he mentions the one name that may spare her further pain.

"Let's get out of here. Piper's waiting for you."


	6. Altar

### Part One, Chapter Six

And this girl is Aerrow's lover; this girl is his best friend. The turbulent past between them manifests itself in the form of bile rising in her throat. Cyclonis swallows hard and fights off the emotions she refuses to name as _betrayal._

_I've lost._

The immense weight of failure keeps her head down and her feet moving forward. She avoids looking into the eyes of her captors flanked on either side of her, pushes away their misplaced mercy. If they think they are saving her, then they are extremely misled. One way or another, death will be hers.

And there she stands, Piper, situated i the middle of her comrades like a bride at the altar, waiting for Aerrow's victorious return. And there she is, the Empress, walking behind the groom, trapped in his lengthened shadow. The hazy sun blinds her, the shadows chill her. She is filthy, inside and out. The heiress questions her tightly controlled thoughts and wonders if they could be labelled as shame.

\- Because it is one thing to blindly follow the man who saved the Atmos, but it is another thing to lie down with him willingly.

Reality and illusion melt into one and Cyclonis sees flashes of dead Talons trampled underneath Atmosian feet; a bloodied arm here, and a twisted leg there. Their ghosts rise from their torn corpses and sway like restless wraiths above and beyond their murderers, their faces a sea of impassiveness.

Then they start to wail.

She has never cared for them, these Talons who lost their lives fighting under her banner, never spoke a kind word. But at the scene of her ultimate failure she loves them all, each and every single one of them.

And in this hallucinatory vision, she feels the rope around her neck. Desperately, she grasps the life's essence of her warriors and cherishes the sacrifice that bloodies her hands. She will take the guillotine for them all. It is the fall of the Empire; therefore, the fault is hers.


	7. Triste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 & 8 written in 2013.

### Part Two, Chapter One

One hour becomes one day. One day becomes three days. Three days lengthens into seven.

Cyclonis is bored out of her mind with nothing to do except wait for visitors in her tiny prison. Preen herself without the use of a mirror, her jailors fearful the jagged pieces will slide horizontally across blue-veined wrists. There are whistling guards posted at the entrance, a rectangular makeshift bomb shelter just for her, smelling of concrete and stone and dust. And air -

Air that is so pure and clean Cyclonis despairs. Purple eyes will never look upon her homeland again. The blue sky is visible from the high barred windows; the smell of ozone settles down from the marshmallow clouds. It brings her the smell of hard packed dirt, the whisper of tall, green grass, and the carefree laughter of Atmosian children.

They won't let her die.

Lethargy settles into her skins and cushions her mind. Tickles the walls of her solitary confinement and teases her out. Loneliness. She misses the hardness of glowing crystals between her fingers, misses the heavy stench of smoke and industry. The mechanical song of war.

She wilts.

This is not her choice of demise, locked away in a broom cupboard. Give her anger and blood to nourish her, not sunshine and a second chance.


	8. Energy

### Part Two, Chapter Two

Piper, still beautiful and so young, walks through the steel door and sits down upon a roughly hewn chair of wood. One metre away from her, she gives a cautious smile and places folded hands into her lap.

Cyclonis watches for an indeterminate amount of time, patiently listens for an apology to escape her mouth. The meditative intake of breath from her secret friend. Stands up from her cotton bed, boots echoing on the concrete and grasps the warmed bars that separate the women. Feels the vibrating push and pull from their sternums that resonates like a heartstring from one female to another – and urges the Storm Hawk to pick up the wavelength.

Unable to settle her mind, Piper stands from her chair in a ninety-degree angle, a dark blue whirlpool of anxiety. Frowning and sighing she gazes upon the purple polish of her enemy's fingernails. Chipped.

"When will I be released?"

"I don't think they will."

Violet eyes connect with the depths of tangerine; their fingertips brush with repressed tension and inner shudders. Wonders about the day their friendship ended, many months ago, that one evening in Cyclonia. Yellowed letters and broken promises to run away together. Thwart the massacre.

"You never showed up."

Whipping her head away, Piper recoils from the prison's captive audience, rounded boots pointed towards the exit of this concrete cave. Angry by her false sense of security, Cyclonis snarls and hisses out her only weapon. Spittle flies.

"I slept with your boyfriend."

The sylph of a woman lifts her haunted eyes, swirling with agitation and secrecy and issues a tiny, ironic smirk of her own.

"I slept with yours too."


	9. Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written and completed June 2015.

### Part Two, Chapter Three

The empress of crystals seethes in her sun-dappled cage, twists the vertical bars in her clenched palms and growls hatefully with the hissing heat of an untended furnace, the fury of a castrated dragon. She will murder them all for their Atmosian pity, her fate crueler than the noose. Weepy and soft with the continual feeding of kindness, and Cyclonis screams the rage out in the comfort of her cavernous head.

A crap-saccharine freak show of sunflowers and good will, her rosy-cheeked captors feed her warm loaves and honey and clear water. Stuff her white porcelain face with carbohydrates, sugar and starch. Morph the tempered glass walls of power into flushed, pink flesh. Humanization. She can feel it like sweet hay pushed through a hole of a fabric straw man with no brain to speak of.

Her red knight's one-time lover visits, a dreamy beacon of love and opportunity on Piper's caramel face. Forgiveness. Friendship. Familiarity. All purge-worthy ideals to retch and spit out on the power-washed concrete floor. She has a mirror now to watch her transformation. Fancy.

So she slaps another lovely word to add to her friend's concise vocabulary. Fornication. Fuck. Sexual relations. Sleeping around. How did Piper like that? The other woman's eyes soften around the edges, skin puffed up from sorrow, and smiles. She's sorry for her sophism.

Cyclonis wants a blade to slice her veins with.


	10. Ostinato

### Part Two, Chapter Four

Piper's presence is the overture that connects them all; a tendon attached to bones, using little force for movement like puppets under a master. A great deceiver at her deadliest when the puppeteer's unaware of her personal allure. The milky scent of corruption, the vanilla beans of salivation, the temptation to taste her laugh.

The prisoner, formerly a queen, wanted the girl all to herself. Underestimated the beguiling innocence that drilled a fracture between their companionship. A steel pin hammered into a glacier, fracturing them all.

Dark skin matched with an easy grin and soft eyes. Melted amber, not quite liquid gold. Not cold, metallic. Hot breath and small breasts and a pink tongue. The second master of crystals switches her melody to meet everyone's needs, echo the composition of their individual dreams by altering her tremulous pitch to join in dual harmony. Cyclonis runs her palms across Piper's sleek, skin-tight suit, her lips thinned into a perplexed twist of a smile, they personify the dual goddesses of the Greek stage. Thalia and Melpomene.

Comedy is a yellow ribbon, shiny in satin, bouncing through the black walls of Cyclonis' castle.

Little wonder the Dark Ace fucked her. Her best friend with good intentions, and the callous knight was a man of caprice. A sugary treat to savour. Eat the sweet after the salty. Fresh blood.

A man of music, he made her sing. He the bass notes, she the soprano. Stringing together like the leaning bow across the waxed bridge of an ebony violence. Not just the colour, but the wood too. Worked over and over, the lustrous varnish shone in the light a red-tinted crystal. The diagonal angle of their bodies against the rigid wall, the extended width of his legs and the obtuse degree of her tilted neck.

Harmony to their ears, dissonance to the rest.


	11. Fin

### Part Two, Chapter Five

At last, Aerrow.

Sweaty hands clamp over her fleshy wrist and drag her down from the metal doors of the transport vehicle. A break-out. As their feet skid across the dusty road, she thinks of the tooth-paste spotted mirror over her sink. She is out of breath. Luxuries intended to fatten her like a dull-witted turkey before the harvest moon. It worked.

He wears the red cape like a general; tall and severe. Two-thirds hero and one-part unrepentant murderer. Absorbed the essence of the Dark Ace when he stuck his sapphire energy blades into his gut. Cross his arms at the elbows and ripped him open at the seams with a darkened spray of steaming blood. A swipe of the wrist and Aerrow smears his visage like a cannibalistic warrior. Crimson drops mimic sweat and dribble into his ears.

Her time is come.

Cyclonis faces the colourful graffiti with relief. Vandalism of the young on brick walls. Her deathbed between the respectable logos of the laundromat and the butcher's, and swallows her breath. Presses the insides of her naked wrists together in visualized bondage and leans forward. There are no sympathetic mourners, no black robes to adorn the last royal. Only a man.

The grease-smeared coat of a dead hobo will be her funeral shroud. Brown and stinking, carrying the dead flecks of flattened flies, the crusted scatter of charitable fast-foot. Leather. Likely pilfered.

The front of his groin meets her rear, dangerous and inviting, and together they gyrate a hula-hoop of sparking hatred. Aerrow will get all that he wants, his victory, her death, and her champion's Piper - and through the undignified murder of a cover story, so will she. Fingers curl into the softness of her hip as the thrum of a welcome blade touches the column of her fluttering neck. A beautiful sword, held in the hands of three warriors, passed down through execution. She wants it to hurt.

"Last words?"

She cackles outwardly, inwardly she is crying with laughter.

"You win."


End file.
